The Minnesotan Horah

By Elisa Korentayer

Excerpted from the memoir How to Move to the Middle of Nowhere
Published in Poetica (http://www.poeticamagazine.com/)

"Ladies and gentlemen," my friend Josh’s voice boomed off the walls of the
reception room at the small town golf course, then he lowered it dramatically.
"Now we have a sacred Jewish wedding tradition."

The majority of our wedding guests—Catholic and Lutheran Minnesotans already
knocked sideways by Jewish wedding ceremony complete with rabbi and Hebrew
prayers—sat up straighter in their seats. The remaining guests, Jews from the east
coast, hid knowing smiles.

"Please stand."

At most Jewish weddings on the east coast, it is expected that only a few token
guests will comply when the emcee asks for participation. If guests do participate,
they take their time about it, to prove that no one tells them what to do and that if
they want to stand they will do it when they are good and ready.

The rural Minnesotans all stood on command. Not one bottom remained on a
chair.

"You’ve heard the Hebrew prayers and seen the Jewish marriage ceremony. Now,
everyone, please come to the dance floor for the most important tradition of a
Jewish wedding."

The Minnesotans disentangled themselves from chairs and white-clothed tables.
They made their way directly to the dance floor, straightening ties and patting
down dresses. The east coasters dawdled as, peacefully and orderly, the
Minnesotans slid between tables and shuffled around chairs gone-askew.

"Please hold hands."

One-hundred touch-averse Minnesotans reached out their hands to the people
next to them. My Holocaust-surviving Great Aunt Stasia held hands with my air-
force lieutenant colonel, brother-in-law. Father Joe held hands with my
observantly Jewish, Aunt Ruthie. Pam Robinson animatedly whispered a story into
Maggie’s ear. Chris and I stood at the top of the circle. Off mic, Josh directed a
few of the larger men to gather six chairs and bring them to the center of the
circle.

"It is now time for the dancing of the Horah and lifting of the chairs!" Josh
announced with brio. "Chris, Elisa, parents of bride and groom, please come to
the center of the circle."
At every Jewish wedding or Bar Mitzvah, the key players are lifted up on chairs in
the middle of the guests who danced in a circle around them. I knew what was
coming. The Jews and east-coasters knew what was coming. The Minnesotans
looked like rabbits trying to stand really still so they blended into the background.

Josh went to his iPod at the stereo, and pressed play on "Hava Nagila."

Hav-a nagila, hav-a, nagila, hav-a, nagila, bei y’ismicha.

"Ladies and gentleman," Josh called over the music, "we will now all dance the
Horah in a circle. In the center of the circle, we lift the bride and groom and their
parents. Everyone else dances the Horah around them."

The Minnesotans looked at each other and then the floor with shy smiles.
"The Horah is like the grapevine dance. Just move your feet like this." Josh
demonstrated. He flung the wire of the mic out of his way and stepped one leg in
front of the other, then one leg behind.

My Aunt Ruthie and friend Michelle pulled the large group of Minnesotans into
motion around the circle. Ruthie led her train of people towards Chris and
grabbed his hand, pulling him into her train of dancing, smiling people, hands
clasped and lifted. Michelle kicked her high-heeled shoes towards the tables, took
my arm with her free arm and pulled me into her train of people. Soon we had
two circles full of people, one around the other, each dancing in a different
direction. Ruthie and Michelle bobbed and stepped and smiled, and after a few
stumbles the Minnesotan guests got the hang of it and were laughing too. The
entire room was dancing in circles—Minnesotans and easterners, Jews and
Catholics—and everyone’s faces were lit up with the glow of moving their bodies
with abandon.

"May I please have some strong men in the center of the circle to lift the chairs."
Josh’s voice rose above claps and laughter. I knew what was about to happen, and
my stomach lurched. I had warned Chris about this, and the dancing flush on his
cheeks paled.

The larger men in the room—my uncle, Chris’s high school friends, Father Joe—
came to the center of the circle. "Eva, Shay, you know what to do! Betty and Ken,
just take a seat and relax. Elisa, Chris, let’s go!" I felt the hardness of the chair
under the many layers of tulle poofing out my skirt. I caught a glimpse of Chris
being settled into his chair, and four large men grunting to lift him. Josh directed
my parents and Chris’s parents into chairs, and more men and women lifted the
chairs in the air by their legs. Father Joe and the Brazilian deacon studying to be a
priest were at the legs of my father-in-law’s chair. They were beaming and
laughing and dancing along with everyone else. My aunt handed me a white
napkin. Chris and I each took a corner and the napkin flopped and flexed into
triangles in the air, connecting us as our chairs bobbed out of sync with each other
while the men carrying us danced.

The Minnesotan chair carriers, new to this Jewish tradition, didn’t know to keep
the chairs straight. My chair bucked forward and the seat tilted. I clung to the back
of the chair to keep myself from sliding off and my abdomen muscles strained
with the effort. Chris laughed uncontrollably from his chair in the air. Betty held
onto the chair bottom with white knuckles, equally gleeful and embarrassed. Ken
looked confused but happy. My father was proud and elegant and uncomfortably
large on the small chair, all six feet of him trying to shrink down so he could weigh
less for the chair lifters. My mother waved like the Queen of England. One-
hundred Minnesotan Lutherans and Catholics and twenty Jewish east-coasters
danced the Horah around us.